April 15, 2014

NOTE: This post first appeared in Liam's Grandma in 2010. Not much as changed since and revisions have been made to be true to today. Liam's Grandma thought it would be fun to reminisce a bit and just wallow in the same old misery all over again.

Hey, if you're American and you pay taxes, then you know what most of the country is going through. With that said, there are those rare Americans who, just as with their Christmas shopping, get their taxes done early:

"Oh, I got my taxes done on January 1. Well, no, I didn't actually submit them then, because my employer didn't get my W2 to me until the end of the month, but I estimated and just got it all ready...you know - plugged in some of the numbers and such."

Yes, there are people like that. Christmas shopping done in July, the tooth fairy has left money before the tooth is out, the lawn is fertilized in 3 feet of snow, AND taxes are done before they even get their W2s. I am not a big fan of people like that. Mostly because it makes me look....well....inadequate.

So you know where I'm going with this. I, WE, happen to be a couple who waits until the absolute last minute to file taxes. Why? Oh, sheesh, I don't know...hold on while I run to pull the sheets out of the dryer and, on my way, make 14 return phone calls, take the trash out, scrape that Play Doh out of the rug that somehow got there even though it's supposed to stay in the kitchen, write the article for Saponifier magazine, work on my novel, go the gym, and.....brb.

I don't even prepare the taxes...that's my husband's job. But, while he is in accountant mode, I have to be on standby. Like not more than 30 feet away from him. Because he screams out questions like a doctor asking for his scalpel from the nurse who hasn't yet scrubbed up and they are in an emergency situation out in the middle of nowhere and she's all he's got.

Today, Russ stayed home to do the taxes. When I heard that this was the plan, my heart began beating rapidly. Like the kind of adrenalin rush I would imagine an EMT gets when he arrives on the scene, yanks the defibrillator from his bag and yells, "CLEAR!" I had the adrenalin rush - big time - because Russ was staying home TO DO THE TAXES. And they had to be done TODAY.

I met with a friend this morning and after that, arrived home and he was already in tax mode, which meant I had no time to prepare - as in: no time to make snacks, light candles, put on a calming yoga CD and stand behind him, massaging his temples and responding to various questions like, "Why, why, why...."

Instead, our tax day went something like this:

Russ: "Oh my God. This program incorporated our personal AND your business categories into one report. I can't work like this. How can I work like this?"

Me: "I know, I know. I just noticed that yesterday when I was entering December's receipts for my business." (NOTE: Shut up people. Yes, I realize it's FREAKING APRIL and I only just updated my receipts and expenses).

Russ: "Oh my God...."

Tax Day is a big event in some areas. Several years ago, when we lived in Boston, April 15 involved getting on the bus at around 11:00 pm, switching to the train (Green Line) and going to the huge Post Office in, I believe, Government Center. The experience was right out of a David Lynch movie. Upon arrival at the post office, you'd be greeted by doormen in tuxes, nodding a hello and wearing a big smile. It was like they were cheering you on as you crossed the finish line, exhausted, sweaty, and ready to drop.

As people rounded the corner and got in line to have their envelopes postmarked, another tuxedoed man sat at a Grand Piano, playing lovely music (no, I am absolutely not kidding). The white tiled floors looked less sterile amidst the decorated tables mounded with free donuts, cookies and other pastries. And there was free cider, juice and Kool-Aid available for even the most discriminating palate. The place was decorated with streamers with people sitting at tables, enjoying their post-finishline beverage as they cooled off, replenished their carbs and electrolytes, and conversed with strangers - all of them brought together for one hellish reason: TAXES.

Here in Michigan, I am unaware of any such hooplah. Last year, when Russ finished the taxes and I wrote our return address on the envelope and popped a stamp on it, he sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as I sprinted to the car toward the finish line. In an age where submitting taxes is usually done with a click of a button, it's not true for anyone who owes taxes - because you have to get that check to them PRONTO. And we owed some money to the State. So, after finding out which post office was open late, I sped off to Meijer's, a local grocery store chain that also has a mini post office inside.

When I arrived, there were about 9 people ahead of me and one clerk. No food, no drinks. No guys in tuxes to greet me and cheer me on. No piano player. Not that I was expecting it anyway, but I was pleasantly surprised by the very understanding, kind clerk who took each taxpayer's envelope and handled it as if she were holding family jewels. I listened as she called "next in line" and the next marathon runner boldly stepped forward and looked into her eyes earnestly. Before handing over the envelope, every single person stared long and hard, searched her face, and queried, "Will this be postmarked April 15?" To which she smiled, nodded and repeated the same line over and over, "Absolutely." The patron watched as she walked over to the date stamp and brought that red stamp down like a judge bringing down the gavel. And then, THEN, each person said, "Do you mind if I see the date?" "Not at all," she smiled and walked back to the counter, held up the envelope and murmured some kind words as the disheveled, confused runner walked away in exhaustion.

As I approached the counter, I held the envelope to my chest in both hands, studied her gentle face and calmly said, "Will this be postmarked April 15?" "Absolutely," she replied, as I exhaled slowly, and gingerly handed it over. After she stamped it, I called, "May I see the date? Please?" "Of course," she said and smiled as I studied it carefully. "Stressful, isn't it?" she said as I nodded and replied, "Yes. Stressful. You should see my husband. I hope he makes it."

Last year, I told my sister-in-law, Robin, about my jaunt to the post office. She had been a high school English teacher for 30+ years and retired last year. Anyway, she did the morning announcements over the PA system and led the Pledge of Allegiance. Robin told me that when she said, "Good morning, students! Today is Friday, April 16," and began reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, she giggled. And giggled her way through the Pledge, all the while thinking of me, the evening before, nervously gripping my envelope and asking the woman at the counter if I could see the date stamp. Apparently, her giggling infuriated the American History teacher who, being a staunch Republican, found no humor in her less than stellar Pledge of Allegiance performance.

Robin accompanied me many years ago to one of the Boston performances of Tax Day and so, she knows all too well the humor in it - including Russ and I arguing back and forth over who is going to traipse down to the post office at an ungodly hour of the night with me finally relenting because, after all, he is the brains behind this duo and he prepares the taxes which is more exhausting than sprinting to the post office.

When Robin continued giggling through, "There is no detention today, the yearbook committee meets in Room xxx," the secretary became curious. "What's so funny?" she asked. "Oh, it's a long story," Robin replied. "One that begins in Boston back in the early 90's."

Let that be a lesson to us. Again and again and again. Next year, the Christmas shopping will be done in AUGUST. The lawn will be fertilized in FEBRUARY. My novel will be finished by the year 2018. I will put my 33 year old wedding photos into a wedding album before my 34th anniversary. Hell, who am I trying to kid?

And now, after a rigorous day of arguments, threats of divorce and castration, I wait downstairs while he finalizes the returns to see if I need to make a mad dash to the post office yet again.

January 02, 2014

I love the holidays. They are the most wonderful way to end a year. Lots of good food, friends, family, Christmas music, fancy dinners, cookies, oh the cookies!

Holidays are also a time of exhaustion. Shopping, shopping, shopping. Cooking. Baking. Wrapping. Cards (I don't do them anymore myself). Traveling. Visiting. Late nights. Little sleep. All of this is a perfect recipe for: Crankiness. Bitchiness. Witchiness. Homicidal Maniac-ness.

We just came home from a week with family in New York state (the Rochester/Buffalo area to be exact). Lots of driving and lots of "being on." We finally left to return to Michigan yesterday but decided to stop in London, Ontario Canada for an overnight. We'd stayed at the Best Western Lamplighter Inn before, and Liam loved the pool and swimming that ensued. This year, he enjoyed it again. Nimmy (your author) and Poppy (your author's spouse) went into the pool for a bit as well. Nimmy eventually gravitated to the hot tub and then left the boys to swim while Nimmy went and took a hot shower back at the room.

Anyway, we left this morning and headed home to Michigan. Let me mention how great it is to be around children. You have absolutely no time to age because you're moving so fast and so constantly that the cells in your body have little time to become squalid and lifeless. They don't die slow deaths; rather, they have a quick cellular heart attack and new cells are replaced with the snap of a finger because there's just no time for languishing, growing old and wasting away.

By the time we got to our early morning breakfast, we'd been up for two hours, or should I say, feigned sleep for one hour and told Liam it wasn't time to get up yet for the second hour before resigning ourselves to the fact that it was, indeed, time to get up. We made it down to the restaurant with nary a person in sight, including the hostess, who finally appeared and, groggy-eyed, led us to our booth.

Although I've already gone this route before with my own children, I don't know what it is about humans. We just keep doing the same things over and over again, thinking that maybe, just maybe, THIS time, there will be a different result. Kind of like why women keep going through childbirth - even though the first time was so hellish and hurt so goddamned bad, that we promised we'd be performing our own vasectomy on our husbands once we got the hell out of that hospital and that we would never EVER EVV-AARR do this again, well guess what? Most of us did it again. And so that's why we keep taking children back to the restaurant. Because we think it's not going to hurt so bad this time around. Or maybe we're better prepared. Because we know what to expect. Yeah, right.

Anyway, after taking the knife from him and then the fork because he so accurately mentioned that, "couldn't I get just as hurt from this fork as I could from that knife?" while he poked his cheek gently as just a simple demonstration, AND, after telling him four times to get back into the seat and out from under the table, AND, after me mistakenly using every last one of those little creamer cups set out in a pretty bowl and stirring them into my coffee because I had no idea what I was doing while explaining to him what was going to happen if he didn't stop doing what he was doing, and then drinking just a little coffee with my cream, AND, after bellowing at my husband to get OUT of the seat and move so that Liam could be released as I pointed to the empty table where he was to go and sit ALONE and Liam begging for forgiveness and my husband sitting there, half in and half out of the booth, not sure WHAT to do, I decided that I will never EVER take this child to another restaurant until he is graduated from high school. NOTE TO SELF: He's just as tired and cranky as we are. I get that.

We made it through that ordeal and piled into the car on a blustery snowstorm of a day and headed home. The roads were treacherous and I was glad when we finally pulled into our driveway. Lugging my purse, laptop, a bag filled with toys and snacks and another bag I used as an overnight bag while on our adventure in London, Ontario, I got Liam out of the car and the three of us trudged to the door. Poppy (my husband) unloaded the rest of the car and shoveled the driveway while I put things away.

We hadn't been home an hour and Liam wanted to take a bath with his toy fish his mama gave him for Christmas. All you do is set them in the water and these rubber fish start swimming. The thing is, that I hadn't cleaned the tub in almost two weeks because of the holidays, so that had to be done first. I scrubbed and rinsed and rinsed and scrubbed and then filled the tub.

He hadn't been in the tub five minutes before he was "wondering" if I knew where his goggles were so he could watch his fishies swim from under the water. I couldn't remember where I had put them prior to leaving for New York. I was pretty certain I had put them in the big walk-in closet in the back hallway. Of course, the goggles were not right there. Even though I was sure I'd seen them "right there" BEFORE we left town. So I cleaned out the entire closet, rearranged shoes, moved boxes of summer clothes and hung up cloth grocery bags - which is where I found the goggles - tucked in one of my cloth grocery bags.

Less than two hours later, my entire laundry room had to be emptied and mopped because of a major spill caused by...you guessed it! He spilled my coconut oil all over the laundry room floor where I had been storing it to keep it in liquid form to make it easier to manage while making soap. Apparently, the chair he stands on to watch the washer wash laundry was wet (because he had gotten it wet after trying to clean up the water he had spilled all over the bathroom sink, down the front of the cupboards and all over the bathroom floor - don't even ask). He apparently put that wet towel onto his little chair and he needed to dry off his little chair to stand on it and look at the washing machine. Make sense? I didn't think so.

Anyway, when he went to grab a towel to dry off his chair, he reached for the pile of clothes I had just put (not 15 minutes earlier, mind you) onto the floor that I had planned on washing later this evening. These were the clothes from our trip. He apparently knocked my coconut oil drum over because there was very little left in it anyway and it was light.

Naturally, I ended up on the floor, down on my hands and knees with this one. Two loads of laundry later (the clothes that I had set on the floor to be washed anyway but which were now covered in coconut oil), I was ready for an attitude adjustment on my part.

But that attitude was challenged even further, because...you see, when we arrived home, the first thing my husband brought to my attention was the fact that one of the cats had pooped in the litter box in the garage (they have a cat door to the garage where we keep the boxes) and he couldn't do any work out there that needed to be done (access to snow shovel, etc) because it smelled so bad out there. I went out, grabbed the shovel and cleaned out the litter box.

And then, somewhere in between the interactions with a cantankerous five year old, the fifty-three year old husband tells me that something smells musty in his office and he can't figure it out and could I? NOT NOW. I bellow.

And, the final piece de' resistance? After scrubbing a bath tub, wiping up a flood on the bathroom counter and floor, after scrubbing up coconut oil from the laundry room floor and almost completely renovating a closet in search of goggles, my husband noticed an oily footprint on the kitchen floor.

Good night everyone. He's still alive.

Epilogue: No animals, children or husbands were harmed during the making of this day. And I am not a door mat even though I might make it sound like I'm a shoe-in for the part as of this writing. But there are many tiles that set the groundwork for this story and I've only included snippets of the grout used in pulling these tiles together. Yes, there were time outs today. Yes, Nimmy won standoffs. Yes, there were moments of loveliness. Yes, there was a major confrontation with my spouse, leaving him sulking in his chair downstairs (no, he's not in a timeout) and me upstairs in bed with my three cats and my laptop. Tomorrow is another day. Life is good. The holidays are challenging and exhausting and we always manage to survive. Happy #$%^ New Year!

December 26, 2013

There is great magic in a starry night. As a kid, we used to lay on the hood of my mom's car on a summer's night, staring at the stars, looking for constellations and trying to be the first to call out Orion or the Big or Little Dipper. I remember Friday nights spent at my cousins' house, doing the same thing. We'd cram onto the hood of my Uncle's car, several of us, while the remaining ones who hadn't gotten there first leaned against the car, gazing at the night sky. It was magical, almost Holy, as we dreamed about other worlds, and giggled at the closeness of each other, squirming and trying not to slide off of the hood.

It is the Night of Our Dear Savior's Birth

The beauty of growing older, for me anyway, is the acknowledgement and respect I have developed for other religions, other beliefs and other lifestyles. Whatever your belief system is, and how you came to believe, it deserves respect without someone trying to shove their own beliefs down your throat.

In the end, we may or may not be judged. For me, I believe that I will graduate to a new life based on what I've learned in this one. Or I will be destined to return - here - to get to the proper level of learning and understanding before I can move on. As far as I know, I've always been and always will be. It is my firm belief that I will never cease to exist in some form. What pushes me forward and keeps me going is knowing that I am taking what I've learned in this life, preparing myself for what is to come, and trying to be better every single day as I cultivate a path for my future.

Who or what is my savior or saving grace may not be yours, but I respect yours and hope that you respect mine.

Long Lay the World in Sin and Error Pining 'Til He Appeared and the Soul Felt Its Worth

It seems that we are all pining for something more, something better, some kind of improvement. We feel guilt at times for the errors of our ways and sometimes we attempt, at various stages in our lives, to rectify who we are and/or what we've done. Christianity believes that if we accept Christ into our hearts, we are forgiven for all. Judaism believes that we must lead a good life, a life of accomplishment and atonement, that actions truly do speak louder than words. Buddhism believes that we should lead a moral life, be aware of our actions and consequences, and strive to develop wisdom and understanding. These religions are similar in many ways. Christians will say that the main difference is that no other religion named a King/Savior and called him God. I get that. Regardless, we can worship a God as we see him/her or we can worship Gods as we see them/those. For me, I choose to live as moral a life as possible and to love love love. Love is everything (at least for me).

Whether we find our worth in any of these religions or in some other form of religion or belief system, it is our own personal journey. I've been on a journey for many years, having been raised Catholic and having embraced all that Christianity provides. Now, as a grandmother, my journey has led me to believe in and respect many different things. It has been freeing for me in so many ways - even in alleviating occasions of guilt, depression, sadness, loneliness. I believe that I am surrounded by life unseen and believe that my life is intertwined with that unseen "plane." My parents are part of it and many others are a part of it.

Rather than go on about this now, I'll save it for another day, another post and simply say that I do believe it is important to search for and, hopefully, find our place in this world/life while we are here. Contributing to the good of others and the good of ourselves (in an unselfish way) is huge in this journey.

A Thrill of Hope, the Weary World Rejoices

Without hope, we have nothing. "Hope inspires the good to reveal itself," said Emily Dickinson. Sometimes all we have to hold onto is hope and hope keeps us from becoming weary or growing jaded. We all have hopes and some are realized sooner rather than later. Some are never realized, at least not in our lifetime, but I have faith that all of my hopes will eventually be realized, whether here on this Earth or somewhere in time where I will continue to exist (Heaven? Nirvana? Mars?). There is great thrill when our hopes are realized; it is then that our faiths and greatest joys are revealed. Hold onto hope. It is a fabulous intangible that is way up there with love.

For Yonder Breaks a New and Glorious Morn

If you've ever seen the movie, "2001: A Space Odyssey," you know that the music that is played near the end of the movie is exhilarating, hopeful, maybe a bit frightening. But this is the kind of sound I believe happens in the heavens at the point when a desire is about to be realized. When the fruition of a hope is about to be born, that music plays loudly as the angels swirl and clang their cymbals and a new dawn breaks, a glorious morn. Our hearts revel in the feeling of a hope realized, and what a feeling it is!

Fall On Your Knees! Oh Hear The Angel Voices!

Yes, that's what I'm talking about! When prayer or desires are answered, there are times when I just fall onto my knees in gratitude and we can hear/feel that song (whatever it is for you and me) playing in my/our hearts. It is absolute beauty, and the breathtaking moment of a gift received in the form of answered prayer, pining or hope is spectacular.

Divinity. Night Divine. Christ. God. Faith. Hope. Joy. Love. Prayers Answered. It's all part of what makes us human. God is Love. Love is God. We hold God, love, hope, joy, faith in our hearts. Our hearts are the core of who we are. The soul strives for more - for better; and that soul lives in each of us, perhaps as an entity all its own, and this is where our conscience or lack thereof manifests. As Walter M. Miller said, "You don't have a soul...you are a soul."

Let your soul live divinely. Allow it to soar and search. Allow it to find what its source of "divine" is and, in doing so, complete itself as we near the end of our journey here and prepare ourselves for the next step.

December 18, 2013

I posted this on Facebook a week or so ago and wanted to post it here to keep my writing here. I seem to regularly post on Facebook rather than here and I need to change that:

Yesterday, I was listening to Christmas songs while making soap. One of my favorite songs is, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." Even during my younger years, before leaving the nest, I thought of it as my family's song. "Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow...." As a child I used to pray every night, as I lay in bed, that we'd all always be together. That prayer has lasted into my adulthood, but it took a different twist, adding my children, and then my grandson.

The song holds so much nostalgia for me. Last night, as we decorated the tree, I had Christmas music playing as we always do on such an occasion. Just as I unwrapped this ornament with my dad's beautiful face in it, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" began to play. I gasped and stood there, holding the ornament, tears welling in my eyes. I felt that dad was there right then, with us, enjoying watching his family decorating their tree, sending me my favorite song just as I looked into his eyes again. It was very hard to hold back emotion for about 30 minutes after that and I had to continually blink back tears. I don't think anyone noticed because, being an old broad, I've gotten quite good at hiding emotions when necessary.

Dad, I love you, I miss you and mom, and I can still see her, years ago, when this song would play, her head swaying back and forth to the music, her red lipstick donned on Christmas eve, singing the words to me, gently, "Have yourself a merry little Christmas; let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight...."

August 12, 2013

January 21, 2013

Well, here you go. I know, I know, the world is waiting to shower us with all kinds of awards - best reality show, best actress in a difficult role, best actor demonstrating realistically how annoying children can be. It goes on and on and on....

November 10, 2012

Did you ever ponder your rambling mind? All of the inane and insane thoughts that run through it at the speed of light, only occasionally pausing on something that is of any significance? No, you say? That's just me? Oh, well, goody for you!

Here's just a sampling of how my mind went this morning:

"Morning (yawn). What day is it? Oh, what the hell difference does it make? It makes a big difference, idiot. Either the Tasmanian Devil has school today or he doesn't. That's a big deal, you know. It means that I get two and a half hours to myself. Oh, who am I trying to kid? I get two and a half hours of doing things I don't want to do. Like therapy. Or grocery shopping. Or therapy."

(Head downstairs to coffee maker). "I really need to just set up a coffee maker upstairs. Well, wait. Liam needs breakfast. Wouldn't it be great to just install a mini kitchen up here?" (coffee made and back upstairs to watch Curious George with Liam).

"Ah, this is nice. I love feeling a warm cup of coffee in my hands and snuggling with my grandson. Would someone shut that damned dog up?!! Where is he? What house? Who lets their dog out to bark at 7 am? Honestly. Let him out to do his business and bring him back in if he's going to act like that. I remember that time when we lived in Boston and I went out on the porch and barked like crazy back at that little Schnauzer who barked like it was his last bark every Saturday morning. That was fun. I had to run and hide when the owner came out. Serves them right. Seriously. I'd like to strangle that thing. Well, no, I'd like to strangle the owner. Oh stop. Why be so evil in the morning. But still. Mean thoughts lead to mean behavior. Oh really? Who the hell said that? I can say whatever I want - IN MY HEAD. Oh stop arguing with yourself. Jeez."

"What a minute! I'm supposed to be at preschool this morning to clean. Oh my God! What time is it? Where is my phone? What time is it? My hair looks like hell. Well, It's not like they've never seen me this way before. Me looking good is what scares them - they're used to me looking like a freak. I should at least run a comb through my hair, brush my teeth. Wear a bra. Poor things. Oh, too bad! They can handle it. Ladies, this is what you have to look forward to someday. Enjoy your nice tight skin and your firm breasts NOW. Sigh. If I hadn't broken that damned toe last year, it wouldn't hurt so much to wear my heels. Dammit, I'm never giving those things up. NEVER. Oh you will when you can't walk, lady. Oh shut the hell up."

November 01, 2012

I have often, over the years, asked for guest authors to add some variety to my blog. Well, today, I am pleased to post a writing by my dear friend and author, Paloma Paz. Thank you, Paloma, for your contribution to Liam's Grandma!!! Comments welcome!

AN UNEXPECTED TRIP

BY PALOMA PAZ

I thought I was safe.
I spent more hours at work than I should have for the past four
years. The industry in which my
employer operated was rapidly consolidating. As an attorney, I spent a solid amount of time in those
years on acquisition teams, buying companies as small as a single plant to and
as large as being worth a few billion.
During this period, I averaged a twelve hour work day, nearly seven days
a week, further compounded by a two hour round trip daily commute and an
average of only five hours of sleep each night. I loved the work, but wished there was less of it. Perhaps slightly more than the work, I
really, really loved watching my savings pile up. Money had always been my cozy chenille comfort blanket.

I thought I was safe.
Yet my mind and my body began to protest at around the three year
point. I treated my family to a
colossal crying jag after Thanksgiving dinner one year, got into a heated
one-sided shouting match with my sister (you can guess who did most of the
shouting), and angry snips seemed to spurt from my lips with a frequency close
to the speed of light. I put on
twenty five pounds thanks to a regular high carb, higher chocolate diet in a
vain attempt to create more energy to function. I rarely exercised.
I wanted to quit my job. My
God, did I want to quit. The job
market has been particularly poor for attorneys, and I did not want to leave a
job without having another one lined up.
I knew I couldn’t outright quit because then I would not be eligible for
unemployment. I had so few hours
available to look for another position, but I searched whenever I could. I felt trapped.

I thought I was safe.
After one large major acquisition, a new CEO was hired. With this change came along the various
terminations and demotions of senior management as the new CEO made room for
his team. In the next months many
changes were made in key management positions. I figured that the law department was small enough and
disconnected enough from key operations that no changes would be made. My health continued to decline as I
developed hives on my torso. My
doctors tested pretty much everything testable, but couldn’t find anything
wrong. The only logical conclusion
I could come to was that I was beginning to morph into a cheetah with red
instead of brown spots. While this
could have been alarming, I thought how delightful it would be to grow some
serious fangs and outrun the wind.
No colleague would dare race to my office at 5:30 pm on a Friday with an
“emergency” if I could flash my fangs.

I thought I was safe.
As I continued to morph into an overweight, crabby cheetah, my life
short circuited after being informed by my boss on a warm, sunny June day that
due to management changes, my job was eliminated.

Holy crap.

I was not safe.
I wish I could say that I gathered up my spotted cheetah pride, and with
grace and elegance shook my boss’ hand and thanked her for the opportunity that
she gave me. After all, she was
one of the most talented attorneys I knew and I gained many skills by having
worked with her. After a few
moments of stunned silence I did indeed thank her for the opportunity…with
tears streaming down my face and a nose full of snot.

I was not safe.
I had been let go. I, who
had given far too much in four years, was let go. I, who sacrificed health, time with family and friends, and
happiness to ensure that every bit of work I touched was completed with
excellence, was let go. My
company provided me with a severance package and good references. For the first time in my adult life, I
had no job. I learned the hard way
that excellence alone is not enough to safeguard my position.

I was not safe.
I grew up poor. My parents
had low wage jobs, and whenever one of them would lose a job, we would lose our
home or car or be hungry. In experiencing
my family’s struggles through unemployment, I learned a simple mathematical
equation: unemployment = very bad things will happen. I educated myself with a vengeance, believing education to
be a talisman protecting me from ever being worried about the origins of my
next meal or whether my car would disappear into an adept repo man’s hands in
the secrecy of night. I never
wanted the fears of homelessness and hunger that starred almost nightly in my
childhood dreams to be my living reality as an adult. I thought I had protected myself with the fool-proof
solution of education.—I got a doctorate for goodness sake. But no. A bloody, stinking, expensive doctorate cannot guarantee
employment. So much for that plan. [Yes, I think I hear post docs, new
PhD’s, and scads of unemployed lawyers from around the world belly laughing at
my naivety between guffaws and snorts right about now…].

I was not safe.
Despite the severance package , excellent saving and investing habits,
and the fact that my husband remained employed, I spent the first few weeks of
my unemployment waiting for the horror that I knew would come. Day in and day out I was
expecting…well, I’m not sure what I was expecting other than a terror I could
not foresee. I became a robot of
money conservation to fortify myself against the unknown. Not a single penny could be spent that
was not required by urgent necessity.
I constantly unplugged everything that wasn’t being used, including the
microwave, coffee pot, and the washer and dryer. No, I justified to myself, I wasn’t going off the deep
end. We should be conserving
energy anyway; it’s better for the environment. My poor husband was less than enthusiastic about my implementation
of new economic sanctions, but thankfully he cut me some slack and let my fear
run its course.

Maybe I am safe.
More than two months had elapsed and nothing bad had happened. No repo man made off with my
Chevy. The bank did not throw us
out of our house. We did not
starve. We did start buying meat
only on sale and watching the weekly ads closely. The use of coupons is now so engrained a habit that it might
be built into my genetic code.
Instead of uncorking a wine bottle, we usually pour from a box. On the rare occasion when a bottle is
uncorked, I find myself savoring it and paying more attention to the bouquet,
the feel of the wine in my mouth and the flavors as they flow over my
tongue. We don’t eat out. We brown bag lunches, and I am building
confidence as I try cooking in earnest for the first time ever. The only thing better than the cost
effectiveness of cooking is the improved nutritional value and taste of the
meals we eat.

Maybe I am safe.
I have caught up on much needed sleep. I am spending more time with my husband enjoying simple
pleasures, like fires in the fireplace, listening to a much loved (and dust
covered) CD or watching a favorite movie for the gigamillionth time. I am having lunch and coffee with
friends, and I am touched to find that not a single one of them would allow me
to pay. I lost my status as an
aspiring cheetah when my hives disappeared. I started to exercise again. I am writing again.
I must admit to myself that being unemployed has been less stressful
than staying in a job that was too much for me. I never thought this would be true for me.

Maybe I am safe.
It took a long mental and soulful journey for me to admit to myself that
I cannot be an eighty hour a week, high charging executive, that my body and my
soul have limitations on what and for how long I will be allowed to work. Since I was a girl and understood that
I was my own best advocate, and ambition led me to climb the professional world
higher than I thought possible. Yet
I came to realize that all ambition does not have to be plowed into hitting the
corporate jackpot. I can be
ambitious to have a more balanced career, time for important people in my life,
time to exercise, and time to write.
For me, ambition is no longer the ability to get a job with a glorious
title and spectacular paycheck. Now
ambition is having the courage to choose my life’s course by understanding what
I want, and mustering the courage to decline opportunities that are not what I
want.

Maybe I am safe.
As if to test my new understanding of the role of ambition in my life, I
received the opportunity to take almost the same job as the one I lost, in the
same industry in another city, with the ability to move into the senior vice
president role. The salary was spectacular
and the cost of living in the area was so low that the pay would have been a considerable
raise. I wasn’t tempted to take
it. I thought it would be hard to
pass on the offer. I thought it
would be the employment equivalent of passing on a lifetime supply of Godiva
champagne truffles. It
wasn’t. I kindly and calmly
thanked the HR Director for considering me, but I decided to move in another direction. No fireworks hailed my bravery, no
heavenly chorus applauded me for vanquishing my unhealthy yearning for the big
corporate executive life. It was a
simple, peaceful “no” that flowed as gently as a hidden brook. I felt good about the decision, and I
was glad that I could make a decision that put the interests I identified as
being important to me above the interest I merely thought or was compelled to
think was important to me.

Maybe I am safe.
I understand that while unemployment can be a frightening thing, it
isn’t an automatic financial and emotional death sentence. For me it has become a welcome
opportunity to identify the myths that have been ruling my life and leading to
overwork and unhappiness. I needed
the downtime to think and evaluate my satisfaction with my life and its
direction; for four years I cut this side of myself out of the picture. I understand how unhealthy this was for
me to do, and I earnestly apologize to myself for being neglectful. I resolve to not have this lapse in
judgment again.

There is no guarantee that the outcome of my journey to find
the right job for me will be a happy one.
There is no guarantee that we will keep our home or that we will have
good credit. There is no guarantee
that our savings will last. But
for today, I know what I want my life to look like, and I have a wonderful
spouse and family and friends to share it. Today I have a roof over my head, lights and heat, food to
eat, and two very cuddly cats who think it’s about time I stopped the work
nonsense and devote much, much more time to them. I have a cup of tea in my hand, words flowing from my
fingers and acceptance of the unknown.
I am safe.

September 22, 2012

Monday will be four weeks since my Dad left us, my sister holding one of his hands and I, the other. It still doesn't feel real that the first man in my life, a man who has known me longer than anyone, is gone.

I thought I was doing pretty well. I got through the first few days of tears and was able to keep it together most of those days. My grandson and my husband kept me busy. Immediate things that needed to be tended to on Dad's behalf were taken care of. And I held it together. On the day of his funeral, while delivering the eulogy, my voice only broke once, and the people who had gathered there waited patiently while I recovered and finished my speech on Dad.

Then I hit a wall. It happened when I received the health insurance "Explanation of Benefits" in the mail. The ambulance ride cost. The emergency room cost. The private room. The x-rays. I knew those days. I knew the days upon which each event occurred. Every day that he received meds. Or special fluids. Blood tests. All of it. And I crumbled in a sea of grief.

As I've wandered in a daze through the last few days, not being able to look at his smiling photograph that sits atop my dresser without doubling over in grief and feeling like someone slammed me in the stomach, I've tried to focus on more positive things. And there was something today that hit me, as I was driving, and caused me to giggle. And my giggles turned into chuckles. The chuckles turned into guffaws. And then I was shrieking in laughter.

You see, my Dad always wanted to raise a lady. No, let's face it: My Dad wanted to raise a glamour girl. A full-scale, classy replica of Audrey Hepburn. I've tried over the years. I've tried hard. And I've saved him some disappointments by not telling him stories like the day my slip fell off at Boston's Government Center just before boarding the train. I avoided telling him about the time I walked into work, the manager of the Boston law firm, with a big white sweat sock stuck to my back. Or the time I was running down the hall of another law firm, trying to make it out to the front desk before the Fedex guy came for his pickup when my brown wrap-around skirt flew off in a big "FWAP" like a sheet that's blowing hard in the wind and slaps against itself. Or any of those times that he might shake his head and wonder where he went wrong.

I blew it again for Dad on the day of his funeral. I arrived at the funeral home, the first one there, and walked into the room where he lay. The casket was opened because the funeral director said it was just in case the family wanted to say last good byes. I nodded and approached my father, as he lay peacefully in his final bed. He looked beautiful. I used to hate it when people would say, "Oh he/she looks good." Shit, they didn't look good. They were freaking DEAD. But I was astonished at how beautiful my father looked. Peaceful. Serene. Happy.

I knelt at his side, and bent my head to pray. I reached my hand out and touched his arm. And the tears came. And came, and came some more. But it was just me and Dad there and I felt like I could relax for a few minutes before anyone else arrived. I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. Hard. And, at that moment, just like out of that Seinfeld episode when Kramer drops a Junior Mint into the gut of an unwitting operating patient, I gazed in horror as I watched, almost slow motion-like, as a big, clear, wet drop of snot flew up into the air and landed smack dab on Dad's suit, just above his folded hands.

"Oh, Jesus, I said. Dear God." I looked at Dad in a panic. He wasn't stirring. I looked, horrified, at the now widening circle of moisture as it absorbed into Dad's suit. I glanced behind me to verify that we were still alone. Dutifully, I dabbed my very wet tissue at the snot spot in an effort to get rid of it. That very wet tissue only made it worse.

"Oh my God, Dad," I said. "I am so sorry. I mean, shit. Wait, no, I don't mean that. Oh, Dad, I am so sorry." I knelt there for a minute, looking at him, wondering what he thought. I leaned closer and said, "You know, we could just think of it as you're taking a part of me with you. You know, some of my DNA. " And then I I stood, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. And began to giggle. Until my giggles turned back into tears and I knew that despite the fact that his girl was never and never will be Audrey Hepburn, he loves me anyway.

September 02, 2012

Many people have either asked for a copy of the eulogy I said for Dad that I decided to share it here. I love you, Dad.

For Stephen Drojak...1/25/30-8/27-12

Today
we celebrate a beautiful, long, productive, and happy life. We celebrate the life of my Dad,
Stephen Drojak. When a person has
lived such a long and good life as my father, it is difficult to choose what to say on his behalf.

Dad
was the youngest of 9 children.
His Ukrainian parents immigrated to the United States in the late 1800s
and raised four daughters and five sons with lots of hard work and a huge
garden that took up their entire back yard. As a child, I marveled at row upon row of varying vegetables
and never appreciated, until much later in life, the work my grandmother put
into maintaining the garden which provided their daily food. They used fresh food during the summer
months and grandma would can as much as she could to hold them through the
winter months. They were
survivors, learning to live on very little during the Great Depression.

My
father grew up on Linden Avenue in East Rochester. The house is still standing and I glanced at it the other
day as my brother, sister and I pulled out of the parking lot of the Northside
Inn, a place where the Drojak family spent a good deal of time over the years
due to the fact that they were good friends with the owners. The Drojaks are still well known to
several East Rochester business owners, including the multi-generational family
who continues to own and run the Northside. In fact, when my parents were dating, Dad often took Mom
there and showed her off.

Dad
enlisted in the Korean war at the tender age of 19, but rarely, over the years,
would he speak about his time there. It wasn’t until the end of his life that he would
provide us with small snippets of his experiences. One of the most heart-wrenching moments was when Dad told us
that when he and his fellow soldiers approached the shores of Pusan, the
Lieutenant told them to look up toward the hills. Dad saw many men watching them from a great distance. The Lieutenant told them, “They are
going to try to kill you. It’s up
to you to stay alive.” When they
reached shore, Dad recounted to us the horror he experienced in seeing so many
dead and rotting bodies laying in the water and on the shore. It was there, during that story, that
Dad’s voice broke and he couldn’t continue his tale.

Dad
earned two bronze stars in the Korean War. One, a meritorious medal and the other, a medal of
valor. Despite being wounded in
that war, he survived and went on to do incredible things with his life.

He
worked for Eastman Kodak Company for over 30 years and, at the beginning of his
career, he met our mother. They
married and had three children. I
still remember my sister and I, so young, standing on the sidewalk, watching
for Dad, who would walk to and from work everyday, to round the corner at the
end of our street at dinnertime.
We would see Dad, and he would see us, stop, crouch down low, and
stretch out his arms as we ran to him, eager to be enveloped in his
embrace.

Dad
tried to instill in his kids a love of nature, respect for others, and respect
for ourselves. He insisted that we
behave well wherever we went and it was of utmost importance that we had clean
faces, combed hair and clean clothes.
He held us to a high moral standard, all the while demonstrating his own
high moral standard as an example to us.
My father was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Since his passing, when I have received
calls from family and friends who knew Dad, the two words that I’ve heard the
most are “gentleman” and “class.”

Probably
the most endearing trait that Dad had was his incredible sense of humor and his
quick wit. Even as he lay in his
hospital bed, when the radiologist came in to take an xray, Dad looked at me
and said, “How’s my hair? Is it
combed ok?” Even then, Dad made me
burst out laughing as he readied himself for an xray picture.

My
sister, Pat, likes to tell of the time she drove him to his doctor’s
appointment and the doctor asked if he was experiencing any dizziness or
seizures. Dad replied, “Only when
my wife tries to get romantic.”

That
is how our Dad was. His quick wit
and upbeat personality carried him and his wife, Jean, through some very
difficult times these past few years.
And it helped to lighten our own hearts and relieved some of our worry.

Dad
coined the term, “Life is a Dance” long before those books came out called “The
Dance of Intimacy” or “The Dance of Anger.” Dad told me long ago that life is a dance and you get better
the more you practice. And I know
that, in a sense, Dad danced with each one of us three kids the way we needed
to dance and needed to be taught to dance through life.

For
myself, I look at my own life, as a young child, new to the world and its
experiences. At weddings, Dad
would hold my hands and have me stand on his feet as he slowly waltzed me
around the room, watching me, holding me tight and teaching me the steps. As I got older, he’d put his arm around
my waist and hold my hand out, teaching me how to follow his lead. By the time I was in my late teens, Dad
and I could cut up the floor together pretty well with the cha cha, the jitterbug,
a slow waltz, or free style. I
loved a fast song because Dad would whoop and holler and every now and then he
had this move where he’d dip in towards me, shout, “Ca-cha!“ and dart back out,
grab my hand and spin me around.
There were times when it was difficult to follow dad’s lead, but I got
better.

I’ve
realized that what Dad told me is true.
Life is a dance. With those
first lessons, he laid the foundation for how he thought I should dance. As I got older, he taught me to follow
his lead because, after all, he was the educator, teaching his daughter how to
behave in life. And finally, he
and I came together, mature in our dance moves, understanding where the other
was going and following or leading, depending on the dance.

Learning
to dance is painful sometimes.
Sometimes one partner wants to dance one way and the other wants to go
another way. Dad I and
occasionally experienced this over the years, and now and then, we butted
heads. We sometimes would go for periods
without speaking to each other because he could be a hothead and I have been
known to be a bit stubborn and slow to come around when I feel wounded. Eventually, though, one of us would
make that first move and nervously go back out onto the dance floor, extend a
hand, and see if the other would accept.

Dad
and I never apologized to each other.
We never talked about our feelings or tried to iron things out. It just wasn’t the nature of our
relationship. Instead, we learned
from one another and changed who we were just a bit, danced a little more in
rhythm with the other to show that understood. We showed that we were willing to acquiesce, just a bit to
make the dance a bit smoother.

Spending
time with Dad right before he died, staying at his house with him, cooking for
him, sitting with him, was a gift.
Because we were, in a sense, dancing that last dance together, more of a
slow dance, one in which he followed more and I led more. In taking the lead, I let him know that
eventually, it would be OK to sit out the next dance and let go. Dad did that this week. The dance has stopped but his legacy
will live on forever.